


Force of Arms

by aslanbrooke



Series: Trust the Force [2]
Category: Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Amputee!Cal Kestis, Cal Kestis Needs a Hug, Disability, Disabled Character, F/M, Hurt Cal Kestis, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Planet Takodana (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28514787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslanbrooke/pseuds/aslanbrooke
Summary: When Vader turns Cal’s own lightsaber against him on Nur, he doesn’t just go for the chest.
Relationships: BD-1 & Cal Kestis, Cal Kestis/Merrin, Cere Junda & Cal Kestis, Greez Dritus & Cal Kestis
Series: Trust the Force [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864252
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	1. Nur

**Author's Note:**

> This idea took hold of me, and it just wouldn't let go. It's part of something I've been planning for awhile, but am just now tackling. Enjoy!

Down in the Fortress Inquisitorius, deep below the surface of the dark waters of Nur, Cal Kestis is certain of one thing: he has never in his life been in more danger than he is now.

The Empire has been doing its very best to put an end to his quest. Stormtroopers, scout troopers, purge troopers, Inquisitors...he’s faced them all. The Inquisitors have been the worst. With Force powers that rival his own, and training that likely exceeds it, Cal has been pushed to the brink during each of their fights. He has reached deeper, pushed harder than he had ever thought possible. Yet each time, he has prevailed, either by his mere survival or, more recently, winning the battles against Force users with more experience than he.

Until now.

This black, mechanical mountain of a man is unlike anything Cal has ever faced before. The Dark Side rolls off him like a roiling sea of pain and suffering, seeking to pollute and destroy all in its path. When he had first seen him step off that platform, Cal had initially thought him to be another Inquisitor. But Trilla’s gut-wrenching terror, and Cere’s whispered words, the _Dark Shadow,_ had hinted at something else, and then the man’s--if he can be called that--own words, _You have failed me, Inquisitor,_ confirmed it. The head of the Inquisitorius, this dark behemoth likely is, but he is no Inquisitor.

Deep in the recesses of Cal’s mind, the sections _not_ filled with mind-numbing terror, what little logic he has left provides an answer: the opponent now bearing down on him is a Sith Lord.

But Cal is no Obi-Wan Kenobi or Anakin Skywalker, the two Jedi Knights most renowned for their ability to take on and take _down_ Sith Lords. Instead, the recent-Padawan-turned-young-Knight is tossed aside like so much garbage, his lightsaber flying from his hand at the moment of impact. Cal gasps, stars dancing before his eyes as his head makes contact with the metal floor. He can only watch, through darkening vision, as the Sith Lord grabs his droid, _his friend,_ and throws him to the ground. For one heart-stopping moment, Cal thinks this is it for his small, but loyal companion.

But his fears, at least in that regard, prove to be unfounded. Instead, the Sith Lord advances, focusing entirely on the little Jedi who has been causing his Inquisitors so much trouble.

The moment the Sith Lord moves, Cal’s fear resurfaces and his vision clears right up. Desperately, he reaches for his lightsaber, hoping to buy himself, his companions, and the children on the holocron, just a little more time, just enough for him to figure out something else. A frantic _pull_ with the Force, and his lightsaber is flying into his hand--

\--but it doesn’t make it.

Instead, it stops halfway, suspended in the air only an arm’s length away. He tugs again; it doesn’t budge. Eyes widening, Cal looks up and sees the Sith Lord, hand just slightly extended. It’s him; he’s doing it. He’s taken Cere, he’s taken Trilla and now, he’s about to take Cal’s only hope of saving himself and the children on the holocron from a horrible fate under the crushing heel of the Galactic Empire.

Seemingly unbothered by the tug-of-war they currently have going on, the black-suited Sith intones, “Surrender the holocron.”

Not an option. No matter how terrified he is, Cal knows, down to the very core of his being, that that will _never_ be an option. If that means becoming one with the Force today, then so be it.

“I’ll never give it to you!”

Again, the Dark Lord isn’t bothered by his fit of denial. “We shall see.”

Cal watches, in horror, as his lightsaber slowly begins to move, rotating on an invisible axis. There’s no real reason for it; he knows the Sith is well aware that it’s a saberstaff, and both ends work equally well. This, then, is for show, simply to demonstrate that he _can,_ that he is able to take Cal’s weapon from him, and turn it from a lifeline to a catalyst of pure fear.

And it’s working. Cal tries and tries, but nothing he does has any effect on the weapon’s rotation. A single violet blade ignites, but he only has a split second to process this before his own weapon is upon him.

Perhaps it is meant to be a stab, but that isn’t what happens. Perhaps Cal’s last-second grab for the weapon is more powerful than the Sith expects and destabilizes it, or maybe the Sith is simply toying with him, but instead of being driven deep into his chest, the lightsaber does something else. 

It comes down hard, tearing, _melting,_ through the flesh and bone just above his left elbow before biting deeply into the left side of his chest, and Cal _screams._ Only distantly is he aware of his right hand scrambling for the hilt, finding the switch and turning the saber off. It keeps him from being sliced in two, but it doesn’t help with the pain. Never in his life has he ever felt such all-encompassing agony. With the saber now off, Cal sags back against the ground, breath coming in shuddering moans. His left side is on fucking _fire,_ and darkness teases the edges of his vision.

Just as he’s about to pass out, though, something catches Cal’s attention and drags him back to the land of the living. A red lightsaber flies through the darkness, but it isn’t the Sith Lord’s. He turns to deflect it and Cal watches, amazed, as _Cere_ emerges from the darkness, catching her stolen deflected lightsaber and tucking and rolling before facing off against the monster from her memories.

“I won’t let you take those children!”

Cere raises her red blade, both hands coming down to strike a powerful blow against their enemy. Maybe, Cal thinks, just maybe, between the two of them--

\--but it’s for naught. Cere swings again and again, each blow strong and precise, but the Sith blocks, unaffected by the strength behind the strikes. He advances, driving the older Jedi back until his last strike tears the lightsaber from her hands. Cere is dealt a vicious, backhanded blow that sends her flying, landing in a heap just in front of her wounded companion. She finds her feet quickly, but rather than being cause for celebration, it’s cause for alarm.

Something deep inside Cal quails when he feels the anger rolling off his friend in waves. The person standing before him now is drawing from it, but she’s not stopping there. She’s bypassing the Light, and reaching directly for the _Dark Side._

The Sith Lord can feel it, too. “Such hatred,” he purrs. “You would have made an excellent Inquisitor.”

This gets exactly the reaction their enemy is hoping for, the one Cal is desperate to avoid. “She’s stronger than that,” he gasps, hoping to remind his companion of her own strength. It works--in a fashion.

Rather than come back to herself, Cere brings her hands together, the Force moving through her like a carnivorous snake about to choke the life out of its prey. But rather than choke the Dark Lord, Cere instead targets Fortress itself, the embodiment of all of her rage and pain. Durasteel and transparisteel warp and crack, threatening to let the crushing power of Nur’s ocean flood this Dark Side-polluted chamber.

The chamber that they are _all_ currently occupying.

It’s that thought, the thought that his friend is about to drown them, and herself along with them, that finally propels Cal to his feet. It’s a struggle; only his right arm and lung are working. His left arm refuses to respond to his commands, hanging uselessly at his side, and his left lung will not inflate, denying him the breath he so desperately needs. The motion sends a fresh wave of agony cascading through him, tearing a gasp from his still-functioning lung. But Cal fights tooth and nail to keep his feet, to not give in to the urge to just collapse and never get up. He staggers, he’s off-balance, but it works. He’s standing.

As opposed to the Sith Lord, who has condescendingly dropped to one knee. “Yes,” he mocks, the sound coming from his vocoder somehow a combination of gravel and oil, _“Strong_ with the Dark Side.” He rises then, showing just how unaffected he is by the former Jedi’s show of power. “I can _feel_ it inside her…”

He takes an ominous step towards them, and Cal instinctively ignites his lightsaber, for all the good he knows it won’t do them. He’s too badly wounded to make a difference, and it’s not like he can outmatch a Sith Lord on a good day, anyway. There’s only one thing he can do: attempt to reach his friend. If he can reach her, then maybe, just maybe, they can figure out a way out of this together.

“Cere...Cere!” Cal’s cries are desperate, breathless. She twitches, then, showing she has heard him, but doesn’t let up her assault on the Fortress’s superstructure. Cal tries again. “Listen to me!” He draws on the Force, using it to add strength to his words, to reach his friend inside whatever dark cocoon she’s wrapped herself in. His Force presence brushes up against hers, trying to strike a balance between both forceful and soothing. Cere twitches again, responding to both his spoken and unspoken pleas. _Please listen to me…_ “You still have a choice!”

And it _works._ Cal can feel it, the moment her friend comes back to herself. Her anger fades, replaced by horror as she stares at her hands, as if something else had temporarily taken over them. That horror, in turn, is replaced by fear as the Sith Lord advances, about to strike down not just herself, but her crewmate, her friend, behind her. Cal watches, spellbound, as Cere does something he has never seen before. She reaches for the Force again, not for the Dark Side, but for the Light. Just as the red blade is about to cleave her in two, it just...stops.

It’s nothing like the times Cal has used the Force to freeze his enemies in place. Rather, this is like the Sith’s blade has run into something more akin to a wall, no, _a shield._ Because that’s exactly what it is. A Force-shield.

Cal can feel equal amounts of love and fear pouring off his companion, giving power to her shield. But it’s not enough. Not about to be deterred, the Dark Lord raises his blade once again, not for a slash, but for a stab. The shield slows it, but it won’t be enough. Not by a long shot.

Cal’s mind races. There’s nothing he can contribute to the fight; he’s not in good enough shape to even raise his blade, let alone drive the Sith back. But something tickles the back of his mind; the Force urges him to look upwards. At the warped metal, the cracked transparisteel...the ocean that could very well drown them all.

_The ocean._

_‘Trust the Force,’_ Jaro Tapal’s voice whispers, and that’s exactly what Cal intends to do. He clips his lightsaber back to his belt and reaches, sending out the strongest Force-push he can manage in his weakened state. It’s not as strong as he would like, but it’s enough. The metal and transparisteel that make up this dark hallway crack and shatter under the force of his attack, and the ocean rushes in. Before she can be swept away, Cal lunges forward to catch his collapsing companion in his uninjured arm. 

The Sith is distracted, sending out immense waves of power to keep thousands upon thousands of liters of saltwater at bay. Cal takes advantage of it, using both his distraction and the stray waves of power to make his escape. Wrapping his one functional hand around the back of Cere’s shirt, he leaps and, with one last Force-push of his own, they are in the water.

If Cal thought standing was a struggle, then swimming is worse. With his left arm out of commission and his right hand holding tight to Cere, all he can use are his legs. He’s a strong swimmer, but not under these circumstances. Cal closes his airways, refusing to allow the water in; his nose and mouth remain clear, but it makes no difference. With each kick of his rapidly-weakening legs, water rushes in, drowning him from the inside out.

But he keeps pushing. Each kick takes them farther and farther away from the Fortress, and closer to safety. Cal doesn’t know how close to the surface they actually are. He just keeps kicking. Kicking and kicking and kicking...until...he just...can’t...any longer…

Cal’s fingers slacken, losing their grip on Cere’s shirt. There they float, suspended somewhere between life and death. Cal’s eyes blink once, twice, fighting to stay open...then they slide shut entirely, and will open no more.

He never sees the flash of green above them, nor the hands that reach towards them and pull them to safety.

XXXXXX

Cal is floating.

It’s warm here, warm like the ocean of Nur, but different. Comforting. Healing. He shifts, and his eyes slide open just a crack. It’s dark, but not as Dark as Nur had been. Something is strapped to his face. There’s a faint blue glow off to his left, but he’s too weak to make it out. His eyes slide shut once more.

_Padawan. Trust the Force._

So that’s what Cal does. And he sleeps.


	2. The Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cal wakes up after being seriously injured on Nur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this idea for awhile...here we go. Whump ahead. You have been warned.

Beep...

Beep...

Beep…

Beep beep!

“Cal? Cal!”

Awareness, such as it is, returns to Cal slowly, in fits and starts. Waking from a long slumber such as his is not the immediate awakening most often portrayed in holodramas. Such dramas often portray the event suddenly, not unlike an underwater transport performing an emergency main ballast tank blow. A real awakening, though, is nothing like that. 

Cal drifts; it feels like he has been drifting for quite some time. There was pain at first, agonizing pain, and then there was nothing. Now, though, there is something. Not pain, though the possibility of pain will exist later. Instead, the pain has been replaced by the sensation of warmth. Sheets. Blankets. Pressure, though he can’t understand why there would be pressure. Scent, too, with a variety of undertones that are mostly overpowered by the smell of bacta. The thought floats through Cal’s mind that he is glad there is no taste of it.

Most pressing, however, is  _ sound. _ Deep in the ocean of Nur, there had been no sound, save for that of his own heart pounding in his ears. Now, though, Cal finds he is being inundated by sound. It comes to him that he has  _ been _ inundated by sound for quite some time, and it is only now reaching his conscious mind. There is beeping--off to his left, he thinks--and someone, he is not sure who, is calling his name.

There’s another bout of pressure, and a tiny groan escapes Cal’s lips when it finally dawns on him that someone is shaking his arm. Not too hard, mind, but definitely trying to get his attention. For a moment, he fights it, wanting dearly to just surrender to sleep once more, but the other person isn’t having it.

“Come on, kid, wake up…”

It takes near-herculean effort, but Cal does eventually manage to force his eyes open a crack. At first, he can’t make sense of what he’s seeing; it’s all a blur. Slowly, his eyes begin to adjust. The darkness directly in front of him resolves into a dark ceiling. Wood, he thinks. The bright lights beside him are a screen and a lamp. The warm softness that surrounds him is a bed. And the moving figures beside him, including the one that is shaking him, turn from indistinct blobs into Greez, Merrin, and Cere.

_ Boo-weep! _

And of course, BD-1.

“Cal? Are you with us?” That’s Merrin. A small motion captures his attention, and Cal realizes she’s squeezing his hand. He thinks about her question.

“...Yeah,” he finally decides. His eyes almost slide shut again, but Cal fights to keep them open. “Where…” he stops, licks his (bone dry) lips, and tries again. “Where’m I?”

It’s Cere who answers him. “Takodana. We’ve been here for a few days. Do you remember waking up before?”

Cal thinks back. There’s...warm water, he remembers, and a mask strapped to his face, with lights off to the side. But that’s it. “Not really.”

“You’ve opened your eyes a few times, but this is the first time you’ve really regained consciousness. BD, can you summon the med-droid?”

Cal’s brow furrows. “Med-droid?”

Greez nods. “You were in pretty bad shape, kid. Wasn’t sure if you were gonna make it. Cere and I, we had an old contact here, and I had to bypass a few safeties to get you here in time. You owe me.”

Somehow, Cal manages to crack a crooked grin. “I’ll pay you back for it.”

“You’d better.”

Merrin shoots the short alien a glare. “You must focus on your recovery, Cal Kestis. You were not breathing when I found you.”

“Merrin,” Cere scolds, about to chastise the Nightsister, but Cal heads her off.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The Nightsister dips her head in acknowledgment. The pressure on his hand comes and goes again, and Cal automatically squeezes back. But his mind drifts. Everything is a blur. There was water, he knows, saltwater. But why was he not breathing?

Cal shifts, then, preparing to reposition himself before asking the question. But something’s not right. His body feels heavy with the dregs of sleep, but that’s to be expected if he’s been out for several days. His legs respond quickly enough, and his right hand finds purchase on the bed.

So why isn’t his left hand responding?

Confused, Cal turns his head. And his brain short-circuits.

Everything comes back in a rush. Their raid on the Fortress Inquisitorius. Regaining the holocron. Trilla’s death under the blade of the Dark Shadow. And then that same blade biting, tearing, burning through his left arm in order to bury itself deep inside Cal’s chest.

Despite the pain, despite that blazing, white-hot agony gripping his upper arm, Cal hadn’t spent any time focused on it, concerned as he was with his rapidly-decreasing ability to breathe. Now, though, he can’t escape the reality before him. What he thought was only a broken arm with a soft-tissue injury--granted, one that involved muscle, blood vessels, and nerves--is so much more. Cal is certain that he was struck just above the elbow. But what he sees is...nothing. Oh, there are bacta patches, a good number of them, taped to his ribs and wrapping his shoulder, but that’s it.

Everything below his left shoulder is gone.

When the sight, when the reality before him sinks in, Cal’s breath comes harsh and fast. Some part of him shrieks in denial and he attempts to raise his left arm. His shoulder is the only thing that responds, raising ever-so-slightly into the air before his strength gives out. Cal collapses back on the bed, gasping for breath.

“Cal!”

Hands appear on his cheeks, turning his head, and Cal’s attention is wrested away from his arm, no, his stump, and over to the person gripping his face. It’s Merrin. She’s standing over him, having pushed Greez aside. Once she’s sure she has his attention, the Nightsister removes her right hand from his cheek and places it on his chest.

“You must slow your breathing, Cal, or you will make it worse.”

Cal tries. But it must not be working, because Merrin shakes her head. “We will try something else. Breathe with me.” She demonstrates, and Cal desperately attempts to copy her. “Again, Cal. Focus on raising my hand.”

Her hand. Right. She put her hand on his chest. Focus on raising her hand.

Cal isn’t sure how many times they inhale and exhale. Gradually, though, it begins to work. His lungs cease behaving like asthmatic bellows and begin to work again. His heart begins to slow its rapid beat in his chest. After what feels like a lifetime, his body begins to calm.

And just in time, too. The door to his left opens, and Cal whips his head around, trying not to panic at the notions of strangers in the room combined with the inescapable evidence of his vulnerability. But it turns out there is no need for alarm; it’s only the med-droid, summoned by BD-1, followed by a short, brown-skinned alien whose species Cal cannot determine.

The short alien--shorter than Greez, Cal thinks--comes right up to his bed and stops. The goggles on the person’s face don’t hide the frown of concentration that seems to have taken up residence there.

“So, Jedi, you’re awake.”

Cal tenses. In his current mental state, it doesn’t occur to him to play dumb or lie. “How do you know I’m a Jedi?”

“Pfft.” The alien waves her--Cal is somewhat sure it’s a female--hand dismissively. “Once you reach my age, kid, you don’t miss much. I remember the Jedi, and I know your friends, Junda and Dritus.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Maz Kanata, I own this place. It’s my medbay you used. You’re welcome, kid.”

“...Thank you.”

With the introductions--short as they were, Cal assumes the rest of their group has already been introduced--complete, Maz steps back and gestures the med-droid forward.

“Cal Kestis. I am model number 2-1B, serial number EFFA21BX992, designation Effa. You are now fully conscious, and I am upgrading your status accordingly. Are you ready to hear your diagnosis and prognosis?”

No, Cal really isn’t ready to hear his prognosis. But he doesn’t think he can avoid it. So he steels himself. “Yes.”

“That is good. But first, I will examine you. Please sit up; I will assist you.”

Very slowly, with the med-droid’s--Effa’s--help, Cal works his way up into a sitting position. It feels wrong, so wrong, without the support of his left arm, and he immediately feels off-balance once he’s seated. Once he’s mostly upright, and remaining so primarily with Merrin’s help, Effa does whatever it is she needs to do, clicking quietly as she pokes and prods at Cal’s injuries. There’s discomfort, but little pain.

_ Maz must have the good stuff, _ Cal thinks. His head doesn’t feel too foggy, and he wonders what it is he was given.

“You are progressing well,” Effa announces. “Your lungs had filled with water, and the rest of your crew reported that neither you nor Cere Junda were breathing upon retrieval from the water.”

At that, Cal’s head whips around, nearly unbalancing him. He looks back at the aforementioned crewmember. “Cere?”

The older Knight holds up a hand. “I’m fine now, Cal. Let’s worry about you, and hear what else Effa has to say.”

Only somewhat mollified, Cal nods. Cere does appear to be mostly fine, if rather worn, so he returns his attention to the droid, which continues, “You were in shock when you arrived, and required immediate surgery to tend to the wounds to your arm and chest. You have spent the past three standard days in the bacta tank, although you were removed once for further surgery.”

A bacta tank? Well, it is clear enough that he had needed one, but Cal is shocked that this Maz Kanata has one. Bacta tanks--and the bacta within them--are difficult to come by these days, what with the Empire hoarding all the supplies. Just who is the Maz person and how does she have access to a bacta tank?

But that’s not Cal’s concern right now. What’s more concerning to him is the state of his left arm--namely, that he doesn’t have one. “What about implants? For a prosthetic?”

At this, Effa has enough bedside manner to drop her head slightly, and Cal immediately knows it’s bad. Dread curls in his stomach. His remaining fist clenches tightly, and he is only distantly aware that it is still wrapped around Merrin’s hand.

“Your body rejected the first implants, and required further amputation. With the second attempt, your reaction was so severe that you nearly expired only hours after receiving the implants, and further amputation was needed again.”

Cal’s heart is pounding.  _ No… _ “What about a third attempt?”

“As a medical unit, my programming will not permit me to do harm to patients. Given the severity of your reactions, I cannot proceed with another surgery for prosthetic implants. If I attempt it again, you will likely die.” 

At the other end of the bed, Cere tenses, shock crossing her features. It sounds as if she is barely reigning in her temper when she grits out, “I was under the impression that you would make another attempt.”

“No, although your assumption may be forgiven, considering you were in recovery yourself. I have run the computations and there is less than a 3% chance of an acceptable outcome.”

“So I…” Cal’s throat goes dry, and closes up. He croaks, “So I...can’t have a prosthetic?”

“That may not be entirely accurate. It is possible that you could be fitted with an external prosthetic, one which would be secured with a suction socket without a neuromuscular interface and would have quite limited fine motor control. However, this may cause pain and discomfort, and will be quite difficult given the length of your residual limb.”

Effa is right about the length, Cal thinks dazedly as he stares at said residual limb. With the multiple surgeries and re-amputations he has apparently endured, his once-long left arm now extends a mere two inches below his shoulder. The injury is permanent. His left arm is gone for good, and Cal is going to be one-armed for the rest of his life.

Cal doesn’t know what to think about that.

“What about the rest of his recovery? Cal’s arm was not the only part of him that was wounded.” That’s Merrin talking. Cal makes the attempt to pay attention, he really does, but he only half-succeeds.

Effa seems to straighten then; it appears she has more bedside manner than any other med-droid Cal has met, if her external reactions to their questions are anything to go by. “Your injuries are healing well. The bacta is high-quality--”

“I don’t skimp on that, none of that cheap stuff here,” Maz interrupts. “If I gotta look after an invalid, I may as well do it right.”

_ Good to know,  _ Cal thinks distantly.

“--and your immersions have been successful,” the med-droid finishes as if she was never interrupted. “I have scheduled you for three more immersions. Given your rate of progress, I am projecting a full recovery within two and one-half standard weeks.”

Full recovery. Right, Cal thinks sardonically as he stares at what’s left of his arm. He flexes it slightly, and suppresses a shudder as what little muscle he has left contracts, twinging painfully as it raises the too-short limb. It’ll be a full recovery, except for the part that can never be recovered. Effa can call it a full recovery all she wants, but he will never be whole again.

“Cal? Cal!”

Someone is speaking again, but Cal doesn’t hear what they’re saying, just a faint buzzing in his ears. He jumps, therefore, when a hand descends on his sound shoulder, and looks over at its owner. It’s Merrin, and she looks worried. Without realizing it, Cal’s brow furrows. In shock, he may be, but somewhere, deep down, there’s a part of him that doesn’t like that look on her face. He wants to make it go away.

“Cal?” The Nightsister’s voice is laden with worry and under it, Cal realizes, fear. He doesn’t want her to be afraid, so he tries to reassure her. He manages a slight quirk of his lips and says, somewhat tremulously,

“I’m...I’m okay, Merrin.”

The Nightsister shakes her head, removing her hand from his shoulder and gripping his hand--his  _ only _ hand--again. “You are not alright. Did you hear what Effa was asking you?”

No, Cal hasn’t heard a thing since the bit about a full recovery. Taking a deep breath (and feeling slightly relieved when his left lung cooperates), Cal turns back to face the med-droid. “I’m sorry, Effa, I was kind of...zoned-out. What were you saying?”

“That is to be expected from the emotional shock of your injury. However, now that you are awake, it is vital that you begin moving to expedite the healing process. Are you well enough to stand up and walk down the hall with support?”

Is he well enough? Cal considers this. His lungs are working. His legs are working. His arm is  _ not _ working, but he doesn’t need his arm to walk. And, he realizes suddenly, he desperately needs to get out of this bed. Staying still--it’s too much. He needs to  _ move _ if he wants to avoid being crushed by the weight of what he has learned today.

So Cal takes another deep breath, and does his best to square his shoulders. “I’m ready.”

“Very good. I believe you will find another organic most comfortable during this process, so I will request that Nightsister Merrin assist you if she is able.”

At that, Merrin nods, unknowingly copying Cal’s actions in squaring her shoulders. “I am able to assist you, Cal. Effa, you must show me what to do.”

Getting up is a slow process. Cal has spent the last three days unconscious, and his lack of coordination shows it. Greez and Cere both reach for him, then think the better of it. Greez is too short to provide any kind of assistance, though Cal’s heart warms at the thought that he wants to. Cere would be a greater help, except--she can’t. There’s no way for her to support him on his left side without causing him greater harm, so she steps back, clenching and unclenching her hands. 

If Cal thought he felt off-balance just sitting up in bed, then standing is far worse--it feels as if he is about to keel over, with only Merrin holding him upright, and the droid assisting from behind. It pops into Cal’s mind, then, that he really doesn’t want to fall over. The Nightsister is strong, but Cal is taller and heavier than she is, and he worries that he’ll crush her if he lands on her. That’s the last thing he wants to do, when she’s gone out of her way to help him.

Merrin gives him a moment to gather himself and regain his breath, and then they are moving. Not having been able to help get Cal on his feet, Greez instead moves ahead of them and opens the door. BD-1 hurries after them. In his excitement, he crouches, readying for a jump, then beeps forlornly.

Cal glances back, and a sad smile tilts his lips. “Sorry, BD. You can’t...ride on my back just yet. Soon, maybe…”

The droid whistles an acknowledgment, and it shakes their last companion out of her helpless anger. Cere manages a small smile. “Come on, BD, you can ride with me.”

Their party thus complete, the entire group makes their way out the door. Cal blinks as his eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting. This is...not what he has been expecting. Instead of a similar decor to the room they were just in, they are instead in a dimly lit hallway made entire of dark stone. To his right, he can see into another room lit by a blue glow, and something bubbles softly within. The bacta tank, he realizes, and wonders just how much they owe Maz for allowing him its use.

The tank looks old, to be expected of a place like Takodana. But it’s not nearly as old as the building it’s housed in. The stone that surrounds them is positively ancient, and saturated with the echoes of those who came before them. Cal breathes, “What is this place?”

“A castle,” that’s Maz, who has moved ahead of them and is now leading the party. “It’s been around for the past, oh, millenia or so. Wasn’t in great shape when I got it, but I fixed it up well enough. It’s a tavern now, among other things.”

Cal slows, leaning in the direction of the wall, and Merrin moves with him. Slowly, making sure not to unbalance himself, Cal disentangles his arm from her, and reaches out to touch the stone instead. The echoes here aren’t like the ones that screamed at him from within the Imperial bases or the wrecked ships. These are softer, more muted, largely thanks to the passage of time. Still, Cal can feel the ghosts of people scurrying past, moving supplies or hauling bootleg liquor. Or bodies, he realizes uncomfortably; this castle has seen its fair share of strife, and Cal pulls his hand away from the stone.

When he reorients himself, his arm back around Merrin’s shoulders, Maz is watching him with narrowed eyes. She guesses, “Psychometry?”

Cal blinks. “How did you know?”

Maz shrugs. “You been around as long as I have, you see some things. I’m no Jedi, but I know the Force. Just be careful of where you go sticking your nose--or hand, in your case. Lot of people won’t be so understanding.”

It’s not a threat, but it is a warning, one that Cal intends to heed. “I’ll be careful, I promise. And I won’t cause problems.”

“See that you don’t, and we’ll get along just fine.”

Warning delivered and received, the group continues on down the hall. Once he’s adjusted to being upright and moving again, Cal finds that, as long as he’s careful, he doesn’t need the support of the med-droid or the Nightsister to walk. “Cal, are you certain?” Merrin inquires as he removes his arm from her shoulders.

Cal mourns the loss of contact, but this is something he needs to do. He shoots her what he hopes is a small, but reassuring grin. “I’m okay, Merrin. Gotta start walking on my own sometime.”

The Nightsister does not look happy with his assessment, but lets him go.

The group moves on. Cal slowly adjusts to his altered balance, and focuses mostly on keeping his gait steady and his shoulders square. His residual limb is remarkably free of pain, at least for the moment, but the wound in his chest begins to throb. His back, too, is starting to ache with the effort of staying upright after three days of unconsciousness.

“Are you certain you are alright?” Merrin asks when he brings his hand up to place it back on her shoulder. 

Cal nods, though he’s mostly preoccupied with catching his breath again. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he grimaces. His entire body feels as though it’s caked in layers of sweat, saltwater, and bacta. Bacta is a wonderful thing, but three days spent coming in and out of it certainly leaves behind a peculiar odor, one that Cal finds he can’t wait to be rid of.

And there’s nothing in the galaxy that helps with one’s aches and pains more than a well-tuned sonic or a long, hot water shower.

With this idea in mind, Cal turns back to Effa. He stumbles slightly, and the med-droid tuts disapprovingly. “That is enough for now, Mr. Kestis. It is time for you to return to your bed.”

But Cal shakes his head. “Not...not yet. Can I just please take a shower first? I think it’ll help.”

Effa pauses, considering his request. Then she gives him a short nod. “That is acceptable, but I must accompany you to prevent the possibility of further injury.”

That’s...not quite what Cal is hoping for. He’s not embarrassed; showers on Bracca were often communal, and workers learned to ignore each other’s naked bodies. He just desperately wants a moment to himself, to truly process what has happened to him; something he can’t do with others near. But he can’t deny the droid’s logic. Cal is barely keeping his balance as it is, and he can’t afford another injury.

“Alright.”   
  


The rest of the crew begins to depart, though Merrin lingers behind for a moment. She asks him, “Will you need any assistance?”

Various injuries aside, Merrin’s offer takes him by surprise, and Cal’s mind goes somewhere wholly inappropriate before he wrestles his thoughts back under control. He blushes. “Ah, no, that’s okay, Merrin. I’ve got it. I’m probably just gonna pass out afterwards.”

“So long as you do not pass out in the shower, that is for the best. I will visit you later.”

With that, the Nightsister is gone, following their crewmembers for parts unknown. Cal watches her go. A small beep near his feet catches his attention, and he looks down. He huffs a small laugh. BD-1 is there, and the little exploration droid has somehow managed to run off and find a change of clothes for his human friend. They’re folded neatly, and piled atop his head.

“Beep beep!”

“You’re gonna stay and supervise? Thanks, BD, but you don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine with Effa.”

_ “Beep beep beep boop zzzt!” _

Cal shakes his head ruefully. “So you’re gonna stand guard instead? Okay, I guess I can’t stop you. Thanks, BD.”

With the supervisor-or-guard situation now resolved, Effa guides them across the hall, to a surprisingly large refresher. It makes sense, Cal supposes--he’s probably not the only patient to require assistance with personal care. He waits patiently as Effa checks to ensure his bandages are properly secured and waterproof before stepping into the shower. It’s a water shower, and the hot water is absolutely heavenly. Cal allows himself a moment to simply bask in its heat.

“Mr. Kestis, here are some bathing utensils.”

Cal sighs, and comes back to himself. He’s the one who asked for this shower; now it’s time to get to work.

With only one arm, everything takes twice as long. The injury in his chest protests whenever he bends or twists, and bending and twisting has become even more important than before. Cal grudgingly admits, once again, that the med-droid had been right to accompany him. While he successfully avoids the need for further medical help, Effa proves to be a fount of information about the adaptive bathing techniques he’ll need to remember for the rest of his life. At long last, though, Cal is clean, and Effa helps him struggle into a pair of sleep pants and an undershirt that will still allow easy access to his wounds.

Cal is absolutely exhausted; never has showering and dressing been such a struggle. It will get easier, Effa tells him as they shuffle back to his bed. But right now, only three days after his initial amputation and fresh out of an experience that saw him struggling to perform and relearn the most basic of tasks, Cal can’t bring himself to believe it. It’s too new. It’s too  _ much. _

“Do you require any further assistance, Mr. Kestis?”

Cal looks up. Effa is still standing there, waiting to attend to his next need. It makes him feel like even more of an invalid than he already is. He shakes his head and lies, “I’m good, Effa. Thank you.”

The med-droid acknowledges this, then departs the room. BD-1 is still here, and hops up on the bed with him, watching as Cal struggles to get comfortable while his injuries pull and throb. He says nothing, though, merely waiting at the foot of the bed until Cal finally settles on his back. Cal manages a small smile as the small droid scampers up to his pillow, but it quickly fades once his friend slips into a light recharge mode.

Exhaustion tugs at his bones, but Cal fights it, instead raising his hand to see it in the light. Five fingers. That’s all he has left, after that Dark Shadow turned his own lightsaber against him. Five fingers don’t seem to be nearly enough, not if he’s going to wield his lightsaber and take up the fight against the Empire again, or train an untold number of children to do the same.

  
Demoralized, the young Knight thinks,  _ What am I gonna do now? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Cal, you don’t get to keep your left hand in this story, either. I’m evil.
> 
> I thought about not adding the tags until the next chapter, to avoid spoiling anything. Then I figured I should, just in case anything here is a trigger for anyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! This is going to be a multi-chapter work, and part of a much longer series. Like always, I make no promises about having a consistent chapter length, or a consistent update schedule. I just publish as I go, so there may be quite a bit of time between chapters. I'm trying, I promise!
> 
> Enjoy, and Happy New Year!


End file.
